CHAPTER XI.
ONE morning Paul, with a clump of papers in his hand, entered his pleasant private room at Drane's Court, stepped briskly to the long Cromwellian table placed in the window bay, and sat down to his correspondence.
It was gusty outside, as could be perceived by the shower of yellow beech leaves that slanted across the view; but indoors a great fire flaming up the chimney, a Turkey carpet fading into beauty, rich eighteenth century mezzotints on the walls, reposeful leather-covered chairs and a comfortable bookcase gave an atmosphere of warmth and coziness.

Paul lit a cigarette and attacked a pile of unopened letters.
At last he came to an envelope, thick and faintly scented, bearing a crown on the flap.

He opened it and read: DEAR MR.

SAVELLI: Will you dine on Saturday and help me entertain an eminent Egyptologist?
I know nothing of Egypt save Shepheard's Hotel, and that I'm afraid wouldn't interest him.

Do come to my rescue.